


yeah, show me what you got

by stardust (lightofthestars)



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Developing Relationship, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship, it's just danatole band au w bonus helene and balaga
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 15:15:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13056603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightofthestars/pseuds/stardust
Summary: A Christmas gig with our favourite band takes an... interesting turn.(Band AU)





	yeah, show me what you got

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadow_in_the_shade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow_in_the_shade/gifts).



> For the gcwap holiday exchange! I went with great comet because it was the fandom I knew best. No specific prompts were left, but modern au was something you mentioned liking. I hope the choice of type of modern au was okay! And of course, I hope you enjoy the fic. I definitely had some fun writing it! (Also, it got kind of long, oops.)

Dolokhov looks out over the room with a crooked grin on his face as Anatole belts out his final note, hamming it up to adoring cheers. As it fades away into the air, the four of them onstage step back from their microphones and bow in almost-unison.

Afterwards, he wipes the sweat from his forehead, catches the eye of Balaga sitting behind the drum set. The drummer gives Dolokhov a huge grin and a thumbs-up, before hopping up onto his stool and taking another ridiculous sweeping bow, to another wave of thunderous applause.

He can also see Hélène out of the corner of his eye, one hand on the neck of her bass, the other outstretched in a cheery wave towards the audience. On his other side, Anatole is blowing kisses to the crowd, winking outrageously. All in all, it’s a successful night.

“Thank you for coming, everyone,” Anatole croons, as the other three bandmates start packing up their instruments. “Merry Christmas to all.”

They hang around for a bit afterwards, to chat with their fans and sign some posters and shirts and even one man’s arm. Finally, at around ten o’clock, they head out back with all of their supplies, fully ready to celebrate as soon as they get back to the hotel. While Balaga is finishing up with loading the last of equipment back into their van, Anatole suddenly slaps a hand to his forehead and groans. “Shit, I left my coat in the dressing room.”

Indeed, Dolokhov glances over to see that Anatole is clad only in a loose shirt and a thin vest. (He’s also wearing some _very_ nice tight-fitting black jeans but Dolokhov isn’t going to focus on how good they look on him, nope, not now.)

Hélène rolls her eyes, giving her brother an exasperated nudge. “I’m freezing my ass off out here! How did you manage to just notice you’re not wearing a jacket now?”

“Oops.” Anatole shrugs, an annoyingly-endearing apologetic look forming on his face. “But to be fair, I guess none of you guys noticed either.”

Dolokhov lets out a long-suffering sigh, before motioning for Hélène to come over so he can hand off the box he’s holding. “I’ll come with you, Anatole,” he says. “You two head back first, we’ll just catch a cab or something.”

Hélène nods. “See you in a bit.”

The two of them make their way down the hall after giving the security guard at the door a brief wave. Anatole’s got his hands in his pockets and he’s whistling a cheerful tune and coming from anyone else, Dolokhov might have found it insufferable. But it’s always been different with Anatole, somehow. Everything is always different with Anatole. He’s really only a few years older than him, but Anatole’s just got a certain vibrant, carefree energy to him that makes him seem so much more youthful. It’s easy to see why their band’s fans adore him in particular. The man’s practically oozing with charisma, with an easy charm, and he _knows_ it, knows just how to play things up to delight them.

And yet, he’s managed to worm his merry way into Dolokhov’s heart seemingly without even knowing it. It’s exasperating.

They’re in and out of the dressing room without a hitch, Anatole shrugging his jacket onto his shoulders as they lock up behind them. But as they turn back they suddenly find themselves staring down a few very unfamiliar faces.

Dolokhov pieces it together almost immediately. Oh, shit. There hadn’t been any backstage passes for tonight. Somehow, these fans have managed to sneak themselves in.

He has about half a second before they’re recognized. And while he knows Anatole is usually more than happy to greet fans and he can see him raising a hand to wave out of the corner of his eye, it's been a long day and Dolokhov is exhausted and he is _not_ here for this right now.

“This way!” Dolokhov grabs Anatole by the wrist, dragging him around the corner. He barrels into the first door they see, letting out a sigh of relief when the doorknob turns with no resistance. Slamming the door closed behind them, he fumbles for the light switch next to it that he can barely make out in the darkness, and suddenly discovers that they have ran right into an abandoned supply closet. Or something of that kind.

Outside, he hears a commotion moving past the door. Probably security, chasing after the trespassers.

The whole place smells a little musty. There are plastic racks placed neatly against the walls, a couple of boxes stacked in the corner, a single tall metal rolling shelf right in front of him, empty of actual stuff. But that’s pretty much it.

A sharp laugh suddenly jolts Dolokhov out of his thoughts. He turns to Anatole, who, for some reason, is grinning rather hollowly. “What’s so funny?”

“I think we’re locked in,” he says, jiggling the door handle again to show that yes, indeed, it is stuck.

“Oh, blast,” Dolokhov mutters. After a couple of tries of calling out and knocking on the door, hoping security can hear them, to no avail, Dolokhov pulls out his phone and unlocks it. “I’ll text Hélène to come back to get us.” A few minutes later, he looks back up. “Damn, they’re already at the hotel. Hélène will be here in about fifteen.”

Anatole sighs, running a hand through his hair. The action jostles Dolokhov’s shoulder a little, and he suddenly realizes just how cramped this dingy little closet really is. “Fifteen, huh?”

“Yeah. Is that a problem?” It comes out a little brusque, but he trusts that Anatole will be able to detect the genuine concern underneath it.

“Not at all,” Anatole replies. His face shifts then, though, and he gives Dolokhov a sideways glance. “What about you, though. You seemed pretty desperate to escape earlier.”

Dolokhov snorts. “They snuck backstage and startled the shit out of me, Anatole. But I’m just tired, really.” He feels the beginnings of a headache creeping on, and presses a hand to his temple, closing his eyes for a moment. There’s a soft touch on his wrist, and he opens his eyes again to see Anatole looking back at him earnestly as he gently pulls Dolokhov’s hand away from his face.

“I think I can help with that,” he murmurs, and Dolokhov is confused until suddenly he isn’t, and he understands the faint glint in his blue, blue eyes and the next thing he knows Anatole is pulling him into a kiss.

In all the years they’ve known each other, Fedya Dolokhov has never thought that his feelings for Anatole Kuragin are requited. Not for a second, not really. Not even now.

Which is why he pulls back almost immediately, even though some part of him is yearning for more. “Anatole, what the fuck.”

Anatole pauses, frowns. Something like hurt flickers across his face. “I… I’m just trying to help.”

“By playing with my feelings?” Dolokhov snaps, eyes narrowed. “How is that supposed to help! I’m not one of your one-night stands who you can just hook up with and never think about again.”

“No, I— Fedya. Fedya, I’m sorry.” Anatole raises his hands in a placating gesture. “I thought… I don’t know what I thought.”

Dolokhov sighs, the tension in his shoulders fading slightly. His head is still awhirl with anger, with hurt, with confusion. “Why would you do that? And how long have you known?”

“Known what?”

“Oh come on, Anatole. Known that I’ve been in love with you for the last five fucking years! When did you figure it out, huh?” Maybe he’s spitting the words more harshly than he should, but it’s hard to bring himself to ease up at all.

Anatole’s eyes go wide. “What? Fedya— no. I just. I only did that because I couldn’t resist. I… didn’t want to see you unhappy, or stressed, or tired. I didn’t know that. Hoped, maybe, but holy shit, I didn’t know. I’m sorry, Fedya. I...”

Dolokhov’s mind goes completely blank with shock. He’s barely aware of Anatole looking at him, apprehension in his eyes growing as the seconds tick by.

And suddenly, he laughs.

“God, Tolya. We’re both idiots, aren’t we. You mean to tell me that we’ve been pining after each other like lovesick teenagers all this time, for nothing?”

A small, bewildered smile begins to form on Anatole’s face. It’s clear that he’s only barely starting to process this revelation now, too. “I… I guess so. What the fuck, Fedya.”

“What the fuck, honestly.” Dolokhov grins now, and tugs Anatole towards him by the collar. “You, uh. You still up for helping me out here?”

“Gladly,” he says, smiling widely, as he leans in to kiss him again. This time, Dolokhov lets him.

Time seems to stretch, elastic, and it’s hard for Dolokhov to think of anything else when suddenly Anatole’s mouth is on his neck, painting dark bruises all over his skin. It’s hard to think of anything else when Anatole’s hands are working at his belt buckle, when he pulls back to kneel on the floor, when his fingers are curling over the waistband of Dolokhov’s pants—

Suddenly, Dolokhov’s phone buzzes.

He curses, loudly. “It’s Hélène.”

Sure enough, their bandmate’s voice comes crackling over the speaker. “I’m coming down the hall. Where the hell are you guys?”

“Uh, I think we turned left down the hall from Anatole’s dressing room, then another left. First door on that side.” Dolokhov does his best to keep his breathing steady, even though Anatole’s eyes are locked with his, burning even in the dim lighting, as he slowly stands back up. “She’ll be here in a minute,” he says hoarsely to Anatole as he ends the call.

Anatole nods, and starts to straighten his vest and re-button his shirt.

There’s a million different things going through his head, a million different things that Dolokhov wants to say. What did this mean? Where does this leave them? Where do they go from now?

“We’re not done here,” is what actually comes out of his mouth as he tugs up his pants and buckles his belt. “Tonight. After the party.”

An all too-familiar smirk spreads across Anatole’s face. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”


End file.
